Of Fairy Tales, Myths, and Impossible Tasks
by Mordreds Girl
Summary: OK, so maybe 3 AM isn't best time to confront him, but it isn't like she was getting any sleep tonight anyways. Also his fault, she thinks bitterly.


__For DamnyouHale over on Tumblr. The prompt was: 'Little Red Riding Hood'.

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_The woods are lonely, dark, and deep_; she thinks as she walks deeper into the actually well lit by the moon woods. But really? Frost is the best her mind can come up with right now?

A small wind picks up and she pulls her blood-red shawl closer. All the while cursing Peter Hale, stupid-ass werewolf, and his stupid-ass gifts; the shawl being the latest in a long line. Thought at least this one is practical. But enough is enough and she is going to deal with this, whatever _this_ is.

OK, so maybe 3 AM isn't best time to confront him, but it isn't like she was getting any sleep tonight anyways. _Also his fault_, she thinks bitterly.

The snap of a branch yanks her from her mental tirade. She wants to whirl around, but she knows that will just frighten whatever poor woodland creature is behind her, so she turns slowly.

She can't help the small scream that escapes her lips when she sees Peter right behind her.

He smiles. "Hello Lydia. And might I say that you look quite fetching this witching hour."

She draws herself up as tall as she can; it's not much, heels are murder on her feet in these woods so she'd had to go with less-flattering flats, but it makes her feel more in control.

"Peter." She feels grateful that her voice isn't shaking.

He takes a step forward. "And to what do I own the pleasure of your company?"

She doesn't step back, but she does rip the shawl off and throw it at him.

He manages to catch it before it hits the ground and 'tisks' her. "I wish you wouldn't do that. This is Irish wool."

Lydia bites back an hysterical giggle, and ignores him. "Seriously Peter? Little Red Ridding Hood? I hope you're implying that I'll kill you when this ends, because both of my grandmothers are dead, and I'm not even going to touch the other variations."

He takes another step forward. The shawl now trailing behind him like a blood trail. "Did your research did you?" He leers. "And how do you know you won't like them if you don't touch them?"

She shivers because it's cold out and not because of the blatant and disturbingly attractive innuendo. "No research. Grandma Martin decided to teach me not to approach strangers the nightmare inducing way when I was thirteen."

His expression is full of mocking sympathy. "Poor, poor Lydia. Did you dream of teeth and cannibalism for weeks or years afterwards?"

Again she shivers. He's close enough now that she could grab the shawl from him if she wanted to, but that would mean that she actually wanted it; and she didn't, she just didn't want to be freezing her ass off at 3 AM in the middle of the woods with a psychopath werewolf. "Only for a few days. And then she started teaching me Greek myths."

He's right in front of her now and she finds she doesn't want the shawl anymore; the heat radiating off him is like being next to a fire on a summer's day. But now she's forced to look up to look him in the eye.

"Would you like to know my favorite myth?" He purrs.

She taps her finger against her chin as if in thought. "Let me guess: The Rape of Persephone?"

He laughs and it does _not_ send an electric tingle up her spine. She watches him take the shawl in both hands and step around her. "That would be incorrect, though I think it says quite a lot about you dear that that was your first thought. No, I always have quite like the Odyssey. As someone who always valued brains over brawn it spoke quite clearly to me."

"And I think it says a lot about you that your favorite myth has the hero 'forget' about his wife and has sex with a witch for a whole year."

Goosebumps race over her skin as his hands come up to place the shawl back over her shoulders. But his hands stay there even after he's finished. "He hardly 'forgot'Penelope, and he only stayed with Circe to save his men from the slaughter." She can feel his breath at her ear. "If I returned in twenty years would you give me an impossible task to prove my devotion?"

His hands move down her arms. "Shall I kill you a god? Bring down the moon so it can live in your skin? Find the true names of your soul and mine? Tell me my dear."

Lydia feels like she's fallen into the middle of a fever dream. Things are hazy and for a moment it feels like she's in some fairy tale of her own, and not a child friendly one either. "I want. . ."

Peter's hands are around her waist now. "Yes?"

"I want True Love's Kiss."

He oh so gently turns her around. He's smiling and there's something strange and mysterious about it. "Oh Lydia." He leans down. "That one's easy."

And he kisses her.


End file.
